


Alien

by BleuWaters



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, THOR: RAGNORAK SPOILERS, best to read if you've seen the movie, but I guess it isn't critical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 11:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12652332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleuWaters/pseuds/BleuWaters
Summary: The Hulk/Bruce Banner x reader. Reader is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent sent to monitor the Hulk after he disappeared in Age of Ultron. She doesn't know anything about him, specifically that he's a mutant human.





	Alien

To clarify, being an alien (from Earth, living a lifetime away from it) spy is not as easy, cool, or interesting as it sounds. Your job is full of paperwork, dead ends, and long hours of training that you never get to use. Being a human on an unfamiliar planet is stressful.

And currently, you’re a glorified babysitter to a ton of green muscle.

How your job landed you here is beyond you. You started as an eager cadet on Earth. You got shipped out four years into your training and thrown into the real work; keeping an eye on the Incredible Hulk.

You feed him. You bathe him (he plays with an oversized rubber ducky the entire time -- no joke). You paint him before his battles and after them for the parties. You deal with his laundry, for Pete’s sake; you're basically his mother.

You even deal with his tantrums. (Once, he threw a desk at you. Thankfully, you dodged it, but, sadly, it flew out the window and landed on some poor, particularly squishy pedestrian below.)

And you know very little about him. You know that he's from Earth, and that's why you were assigned to him, and you know that he needs to return. And that's it.

You're always in disguise, sometimes as different people. That's always fun. It's like permanent cosplay. You wear full body paint most of the time, concocted by Tony Stark to be more of a removable stain than a paint (and he whined about making it the entire time). Your favorite character is named Zarra. She has royal purple skin, lime green eyes, and a heavy, black French braid. A shimmering filigree of unobtrusive gold tattoos lace over her body, mostly on her shoulders, neck, and throat. She wears a full face of makeup (hard to make purple skin look natural, so it's easier to ‘pretend’ that it's covered up) and a simple attire consisting of a shirt, roomy pants, and flats. She's all you in personality, and the sole caretaker of the Hulk, paid to treat him like a spoiled prince.

You waltz into the room of the big brat and give a shrill whistle.

“All right, bud, rise and shine!” you say, whistling again, and insistently until the mountain stirs.

A nearly reflexive duck saves you from decapitation by lamp, and you fold your arms, setting an annoyed expression on your face.

“Don't start that nonsense,” you scold, “Up and at ‘em! Breakfast won't stay hot forever.”

“Hulk sleepy,” he grumbles, scratching his bare chest.

“You're always sleepy in the morning. Everyone is. This morning, you'll have your breakfast, and you're due for a haircut. After...maybe we can do something fun.”

“Fun?” The suggestion draws the beast from his bed. He swings his legs over the side and rubs his face.

“Sure!” You smile, taking an oversized pair of clean, loose pants from a slave who then quickly skitters away. You toss them to him, then pick up the mess he's made in his room since last night. “Whatever you want to do.”

“Hulk SMASH!!”

“Then you will. But not yet. After breakfast.”

“After,” he agrees, nodding as if it was his own idea.

Breakfast goes smoothly, but the dreaded haircut has a good amount of yelling and bellowing involved.

Finally, you walk the Hulk into his room and you sit down on his bed, drained

“Now we have fun?” he asks hopefully, scratching his neck where cut hairs have begun to itch.

Exhausted, you nod. “What do you want to do?” you ask.

“Hulk SMASH!!”

“Oh, I know I said you could do it earlier,” you say, shaking your head, “But you wore me out. No smash; not now.”

“Yes, smash!”

“I said no.”

“Hulk says yes!!”

“And I said no!!” you roar, punching your fist down on the mattress. You watch the Hulk’s face as it twists with fury. But he sighs and sits down on the floor, crossing his arms and putting on a pout that could rival that of any two year old. “I'm tired,” you mutter, “Don't you wanna do something not destructive?”

“No. Hulk wants smash.”

“Well, Hulk ain't gonna smash, not right now.”

“Paint.”

You frown quizzically. “Like...finger paint?”

“Like...war paint.”

“But it's hours before your fight.”

“War! Paint!” he insists.

“Okay, okay, fine,” you agree, and you slide off the tall bed, “I'll be back in a minute.”

You gather your extensive painting supplies from your room, grabbing every color because you know he'd throw a fit if one was missing. Your brushes vary in size, from tiny enough for Zarra’s tattoos to the size of a broom for wide stripes down your charge’s back.

The Hulk looks up when you come in again, his massive pinky stuck in his ear. He adjusts his position and crosses his legs, watching you intensely as you set up pans of paint.

“What do you want for tonight, then?” you ask, mixing up a bright blue, “Midgardian warrior? Perhaps an Asgardian style instead?”

“Zarra.”

“Hm?” You look up at him patiently, mistaking the word for a question. It becomes clearer when he raises his index finger and pushes it against your stomach.

“Zarra style instead,” he says.

“My tattoos?”

“No! Hulk want what Zarra likes.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.” You offer a bright smile, then pull over two pans; one, a pale, chalky yellow, the other a much more pliable, glossy crimson. You grab a brush, then pause, dragging it absently through the yellow while you set up your design in your head.

Though you would rather be an alien noble, you enjoy your work. You enjoy the bond you have with the Hulk.

You enjoy him.

Sure, anger has destroyed much of his reason and, sure, you wonder how anything could ever happen between you two, but it doesn't keep you from your feelings.

Eventually, you figure it out. You place your hands, palms down, in the yellow paint. After letting the extra globs drip off, you step behind the beast and press first your left hand, then your right to his spine, leaving a single line of prints up his back. The last single print rests upon the crown of his neck. Above that, you lay down two like wings, your fingertips curling around the side of his neck.

The marks are dwarfed by the Hulk's size, almost comically so.

“Do you feel anything other than anger?” you ask, reapplying paint so you can continue, “Or, I should say, do you feel love?”

“Love…”

“Yes. Do you love me?”

“Hulk like Zarra. Zarra like Hulk?”

“Of course I do,” you smile, stepping up onto his leg. You run your messy fingers through his hair, turning a stripe down the center that clay-like yellow. “I like you very much.”

“Hm...Hulk like you,” he says thoughtfully, and you give a faint nod, stepping down to wipe off your right hand and reapply to your left.

“And I like you,” you repeat, and your voice quiets as you take the Hulk’s massive hand with yours, “Hold still.”

It may not have been exactly the answer you were wanting, but you aren't disappointed. More...relieved. His answer was an expected one, and it was enough.

You line up your hand on the back of his, fingers and thumb pointing in perfect alignment, and press down. You repeat it with your right hand.

“Done?”

“Just about,” you promise, “Two more.”

One yellow hand above his right pectoral, and a dark red one on his left, signifying your quiet love for him.

You're very happy as you are. You see him every day for hours and hours, and he has little more to offer for the time being.

“Done,” you say softly, “And you look dashing.”

“Dashing.”

“Very handsome,” you confirm, grinning.

“Hulk handsome,” he ponders.

“You are.”

“Zarra handsome, too.” He presses his finger to your stomach, and gives a gruff smile.

You flush, very pleased.

There.

Progress.

 

~o0o~

 

The stubborn paint takes a good scrubbing to remove from your hands. The purple stain beneath it doesn't budge; it’s formulated to last until a chemical solution is rubbed into the skin or until the epidermis fully sheds.

The Hulk has gone off to his battle. You never watch, though he wins every time without so much as a scratch. You usually tidy his room, or prepare his hot tub, or keep the time to yourself.

Tonight, you're enjoying a long, hot shower, ending with a long, hot soak and a good book. You check the time. Not much longer before he's finished.

After drying off and redoing your makeup, you hustle back to the Hulk's room, your hair heavier now that it's damp.

A robot guard meets you outside the door.

“Zarra Septi?”

“That's me,” you say hesitantly, “Is something wrong?”

“No. Grandmaster wants to transfer you.” The words are mechanical and jerky, and the bot looks like it's seen better days.

“Transfer me? Where?”

“Down to the opposing gladiators. You did so well with the Hulk, he wants to see how you do with the real ruffians.”

“Oh, really…”

“Yup. You keep your room and your status, but your job is harder and grosser. Congratulations.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter, and you cross your arms, “When do I start?”

“Right now. Follow me.”

“I can't start right now,” you say, “I'm busy. My charge is almost finished with his fight and he'll be expecting me.”

“Too bad.”

“You don't want to see him when he's angry.”

“What do I care? I'm a robot!”

You huff. He's got a point there. Maybe you'll have a word with the Grandmaster himself.

“Well, I'm not coming with you,” you say decisively.

“You're in no position to resist,” says the machine, and with a bit of clanking, a tiny gun pokes out on its shoulder.

“I can't go with you.”

“But you must.” The gun powers up, blue light glowing threateningly.

“I can see that,” you say, frowning deeply. The robot moves away, and you follow, a deep-seated panic setting into your gut. You swallow down a lump in your throat and place your hand on your aching stomach.

This is not good.

 

~o0o~

 

It was a frightfully busy first night. A handful of gladiators had fought in smaller battles and needed tending to, and the one that faced the Hulk didn't make it out of the arena. You found yourself sloppily dressing wounds, hand-feeding a strange alien with a broken jaw, and throwing a soapy solution over a half-dozen grubby, unruly criminals. 

“Sit down!” you bark, kicking the back of a mocking man’s knee and sending him down. You grab him by his greasy orange hair, pull his head to the side, and tag him with a taser chip. You drop him and he spasms as a current travels its circuit through his body.

You hate this.

This isn't like you.

You shower again when the work day closes. You can still feel alien fleas crawling all over you and the film of filth on your hands and face. You scrub and scrub until you’re sore, and you scrub once more before getting out, wrapping up in warm pajamas, and plopping down in your bed.

You hear him while you're combing your hair.

And he's very angry.

You can't bear it. You lay down and pull the blankets up around your ears, crushing them against your skull until his anguished roars dull. Tears squeeze through your eyelids and dampen your pillow and you let out an angry cry to echo his.

Eventually, you fall into a fitful sleep. You jerk awake to the Hulk ripping his room apart several times, and you see him in your dreams.

The next night is the same. A shower. An angry beast. A sleep met with tears.

And this happens for another week before you do something about it.

You wait until the night is at its quietest before sneaking out of your room. The Hulk's quarters are a floor up, on the opposite side of the massive building, and the area is heavily guarded to keep fans out and the beast in.

You stand snugly against the elevator wall, adrenaline creeping up the nape of your neck as the doors slide open. Nobody comes in, so you peer into the hallway.

Two guards walk down it, away from you, laughing at some dumb joke, and you glide across the glossy floor, the rubber soles of your flats relievingly silent. Following boldy close behind them, you stop when the round the corner and greet a third, possibly a fourth guard down that hall.

The Hulk is still very active; you hear furniture being smashed and his voice growing raw with urgency.

You peek around the corner, your heart drumming in your ears. Just three guards. Impossible for a newbie like you to knock out swiftly, but possible to distract.

And the question becomes ‘how’?

You could find a robot and reprogram it. You could threaten a slave working on the lower floors. You could...have the situation work itself out, because that's what ends up happening.

The floor trembles, and an alarm goes off, red lights flashing overhead. The guards shout to each other that the Hulk is trying to break through the floor.

You follow the commotion cautiously, ducking into a nearby closet when a group of five men run past. You watch through the cracked-open door, waiting for a good moment, when he comes crashing through with wire choke collars around his neck, bellowing horrifically and grabbing at anyone close enough.

You figure that's as good a moment as any, but instinct keeps you still.

You need to maintain your cover, and keep your job under the Grandmaster. You have to stay near the Incredible Hulk and out of trouble.

It hurts your heart to watch him tased into delirium, and it hurts to see him wrestled down the hallway to the right. At the end of that hallway is a cramped cage, hardly tall enough for him to sit in, meant specifically for taming and punishing the beast. It's a cruel solution to a situation more easily handled by someone who knows him. Once he's contained, he's kept in a drugged-like state, a firm dose of electricity pulsed through his green veins every few minutes so he doesn't regain his consciousness. But he's aware. You've talked with him about it before. He told you it hurt and he couldn't escape it.

You'd put an end to it.

But now you're not the boss, and it has started up again.

You sprint down the corridor leading to the Hulk's room, time being your enemy. You have a plan, and you hastily rip open a plastic bag full of red paint, the same you used to mark him the last day you saw him. You slather the stuff onto your right hand, slap it against the wall, just above the pillow, the run back to the elevator, relieved that the halls remained empty.

Heart pounding, you let out a long breath.

It should be enough. You hope that it's enough.

 

~o0o~

 

With a raging headache and a sore body, the Hulk blinks tiredly at his room. He doesn't remember coming back to it, but he does remember the endless shocking he took. Burning up and down his muscles; it felt like it lasted forever.

He stumbles over to his bed and lays down, thinking quietly about why he was sent to the Box. It was because Zarra was nowhere to be found, and he wasn't allowed to go find her. And that made the Hulk angry. Really angry.

He frowns deeply into his pillow, his teeth grinding as he thinks. He shifts, plowing a fist into his pillow before readjusting so he can sleep.

Then he sees it.

A handprint. A perfect, tiny, ruby red handprint, sitting just barely above his mattress. With gentle fingers, he reaches forward to touch it. The paint is dry, and his fingertip caresses the shape thoughtfully.

It quiets him.

He falls asleep with his hand covering yours.

 

~o0o~

 

Months pass achingly. You miss him, more than you ever thought you would. You've taken to watching his fights in the spare moments you get at work. He seems restless.

One evening, when you're curled ip in bed, your S.H.I.E.L.D. issued communications watch beeps at you.

You haven't heard from them in over a year.

You roll out of bed, landing on your rear, and you grab the device and open the message.

It reads, in all caps:

‘MISSION COMPLETE. WE'RE BRINGING YOU HOME.’

Yeah, right.

But then there's a knock on your door.

Admittedly, you're a bit nervous about answering. You don't want to go. You don't want to leave him.

But you open the door, and an agent in disguise gives you a quick nod and a gun.

You get a ticket home through a crazy portal. Apparently, it's the kind of portal that only appears under certain circumstances, so yeah, you probably just left the Hulk alone for the rest of eternity.

You're sick the whole drive home.

You block out most of the speech Nick Fury sends you.

You entirely ignore your Earth friends, and barely say hi to Mom and Dad before going to bed. It's just after noon, but you figure sleep is better than consciousness.

 

~o0o~

 

Your life returns to normal, eventually. Well, as normal as being a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent can get. Your mission built your ranking nicely, and after some intensive combat training, you were sent into the field again, this time to actually beat people up.

You meet the other Avengers, sans Thor.

You grieve the loss of Peggy Carter. She's always been one of your most influential role models.

You quite happily use S.H.I.E.L.D. funding to satisfy your trivial desires, like ice cream every night and an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris with paid leave (because, seriously, they owe you at least that much). Paid to go on vacation. That's the life.

After two years back on Earth, you can decidedly say that you feel...kind of normal.

One night, at ten-forty, you march down to Tony Stark’s lab. You're going to demand another batch of body paint, just cuz.

“Hey, Tony, I need something from y-”

And just like that, years of trained poise and perfect speech halts. You stop so quickly that you trip on your own foot. A funny sound at the back of your throat leaks out as the air in your lungs goes with it.

There, standing at the other end of the room, he is. He wears a bunchy gray hoodie with a university logo on it and baggy black sweatpants. His hair is neatly trimmed, silver flecks creeping into deep, dark brown. His eyes are brown and tired, but they light up with the same shock and recognition you know yours hold.

“Hulk.” You smile, tears pulling your breath away as you step toward him.

“Zarra.” He meets you with a crushing embrace, each of you as stunned as the other and as happy to see each other.

“I'm not Zarra,” you whisper, sliding your fingers into his hair. At this point, it doesn't feel awkward. It doesn't feel taboo or wrong or anything. “I'm (f/n).”

“And I'm not Hulk,” he answers, and you feel his nose press to your neck, and he inhales, a bewildered smile on his lips, “I'm Bruce.”

“Of course,” you say, tears of joy dripping down your cheeks, “I didn't want to leave you. I am sorry that I did.”

“Not your fault,” he says, holding you firmly against him, possessively yet carefully, like you could break at any moment, but he'd be ready to destroy anyone who comes after you.

“I can't believe you're here.”

“Me neither.”

“You're so small!”

“And you're not purple.”

“You're so handsome.”

“So are you.”

“I love you,” you whisper breathlessly into his ear, “I have for the longest time. I don't need any answer or anything; I just need to tell you.”

His only answer is to press a sound kiss to your mouth and hold you tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave kudos and comments; I'm always thrilled to get them.


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